


With Time to Kill and an Empty Tomb

by siano_t



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Amami is not the bad guy and is not doing anything wrong, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Just a clarification, Last Two Only Mentioned - Freeform, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-16 03:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20175001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siano_t/pseuds/siano_t
Summary: Amami doesn't pull the door like Shinguji wants him too, his palm pushes the door shut, clicks and locks— an automatic process.But of course, Kiyo's mind dips in deep into the gutter.





	With Time to Kill and an Empty Tomb

**Author's Note:**

> Lel I tried typing Korekiyo into the tags and accidentally put Kork

He'd been there, minding his business, attending to his field work on a good nice sunset. He's almost smiling. Sister had always loved the pinkish orange sunsets, the way the plump clouds hugged the lowering sun, running her fingers through his hair, kissing his skin. How he longed for her touch. His fingers linger against his left cheek, the side Sister would regularly hold.

He smoothed his hand over his mask. Once he was done here, he'd go and dress pretty to drop into town and pick up a female, palpable beaut for his beloved. He's happy, is what it seems, Sister's voice running through the cracks of his brain, voicing her delight, how proud she was over him, keeping everything alive when she wasn't. And he knew it, too.

His eyes run over the water. Oh, what a thouroughly exquisite view. The little flowers, each and every duck that swam by; A sight that could bring a radiant tear to his eye.

He hadn't seen that group of men, big, bulky, indignant men enter his grounds. Hadn't heard them rummaging through his belongings, Sister's belongings. Oh, he had no idea. No idea, truly.

He felt blunt fingernails dig into the skin of the mask, the thumb belonging to that wretched hand pressing deep into his cheek. Shinguji's thin, yet full eyebrows raise, and then he's scowling within a minute as his throat is ripped towards the clouds, his favoured ones. He meets pairs upong pairs of eyes, a great variety of colours. He's not as electrified, disgusted, rather, snarling when they squeeze his masked cheeks together and gifting him their bitter grins. Oh, had he truly not, not, _not_ heard them charge.

He is then spit on, kicked, punched and knocked off his knees. They're towering over him simply, excruciatingly. His skin is burning a moment lower, the hazed purple between his brows, a now boiling crimson. His teeth are fitted together forcefully, a singular tear running down his cheek.

His mind's empty. You'd think of nothing when getting entirely shredded, cut, beat to death but he, he thought only and purely of Sister, his beloved, his dearest, his reason to live.

Stripped of his clothes, shredded with foul blades and beat with salient weapons, he's brought it upon himself. His mind's wearing black, he's too tired to open but an eyelid. Doing so is only giving him the gift of being presented with his ankles flat against a monster's collarbone; He hates it. He hates it. He hates it. His bloodied knees do no sufficient matter, they're shaking, bones nothing but remnants. They found him out, and this is his punishment.

"Sister," He'd moan, reservedly full of shame and agony, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He's sorry, but they didn't seem to care. They never cared, everyone but Sister. Oh, how he missed her warm, loving touch. He craves it, craves it even through this lamenting moment. His fingers are pushing through his teeth, fingernails delicately riding up on his bloodied lips.

"Sister, I'm.. sorry." His stomach is full, burning and coiled with the feeling of each and every integral monster that ran upon his world. His palm finds it's way to the gruelling man's chest, heaving with exhaustion but he's too fatigued to care. He's smiling, now. It's strange, isn't it. Isn't it. _Isn't it_?

He's beyond grinning, feeling every slap, every blow, every cut, every thrust. Beaming doesn't cut the pain but it twists into something more, something bareable, almost something.. likeable. He thinks of Sister, the way she liked to have things programmed; her snoozing perfectly in her bed, Korekiyo, head against the dusty floor. The times where she publicly strips him, squeezes and strangles him, mocking him with loving, antagonising insults. And he absolutely loves it. He's left on that wooden floor, one he once shared with his dearest, but inside of his head on her shoulder, he's half-naked and bruised and bleeding, a dainty little scowl.

Not because he's ravaged and beaten by these disgusting old men, but because he no longer smells like the aging perfume Sister once owned.

How filthy.

______________

"Hey!"

"Korekiyo," a voice startled him, awakened him from his deep thinking, a hand settled warmly on his stiff shoulder. "You okay? You were out of it.. for a bit."

He twirled his finger, like Korekiyo's crazy, gone bonkers. He scowls at that, shrugging off this firvulous wrist with a soft mutter, "I am fine. Just thinking, is all.."

The man raises his eyebrows, it's all but lies and he knows this man can see it. "We're all having some dinner together. Surely you'd want to join us, hm?"

He had things to do, right? He wanted to investigate as many people as he could, if not all.

He goes to open his mouth and refresh his eyes, but he froze. Dinner. Didn't sound half bad, actually. He was quite hungry. "Yes. I'll join you."

They beamed at him. "I'll lead the way."

______________

Dinner was a course. A set of coconut rice and parsley, a side of salted vegetables and linguine, paired with both a glass of wine and water.

Korekiyo's staring down hard at his glass of wine. It's red.. thick.. like blood. His bandaged fingers run to grab the base of it, unzipping the mask wither his opposite hand for his lips to meet the fluid, yet solid rim. The wine flows down his throat, easily.

"Hey, there," and he's startled once more, almost dropping and shattering the glass he wouldn't merely care for, opening his eyes he never realised had shut. The glass evolved between his two fingers whilst he's looking around. The face leaning in to his own looks vastly amused, so much so, his eyes are narrowing to show his immense concern, joined by nothing but a chuckle. Korekiyo meets the gaze of many, all sharing but lacking concern, to which he didn't need nor care for, but found him humorous.

"I'd say someone hadn't had something to drink in a bit, hm?" Spiked a loud voice, one that was forever enthralled. There's a gleam in her eye as she adds, "You thirsty?" With a sinful grin, and a lolling of the tongue.

Korekiyo shivered obliviously, scowling to himself, but to them he looked neutral. "Absolutely not. It's been a while, is all."

"Well, in that case, take some more! I'd love to see you loosen up a bit, get you drunk enough, get rid of that hat.. hey— maybe the mask, too," grinned a purple-haired dunce, just finishing his mouthful of food and beginning to chew on the tips of his fork.

"_Of course not_." Korekiyo bit, almost selfishly, but he's already holding out his glass for the checkered boy, cackling as he fills the glass to the brim with red wine.

It's been a long day, surely a drink wouldn't spoil him, would it? The liquid's halfway down his throat as he pulled back, brows furrowing at how simple he's able to drink it. Korekiyo glances to his side, at the emerald-haired boy, who slowly retreated his hand, hand resting against his cheek as the other pokes his silverware against the plate. His smile looks dazed, drugged almost. His fingers come up to twirl at the tips of his hair, corners of his mouth extending his smile. Korekiyo could scoff, did, and his cheeks heat up. He's not sure if the alcohol's getting to him, or this boy's getting on his nerves.

______________

"There we go, hold on, hold on—"

"Get off me!" Korekiyo hissed, shoving his elbow into the boy's chest that does nothing but a vibrate. "I can get there on my own."

"Really? Because, you couldn't even get off the table yourself," he chuckled, pinning Korekiyo's arm around his shoulder, his other on his waist. "Which room is it, numberrr.. seven?"

"Let go of me," Korekiyo growled. Amami chuckles, swiping with Kiyo's card (he had yelled at Amami, directly into his ear, questioned how and why he had pickpocketed) and springing the door wide open. Each male room is organised in a neat, but primitive fashion— bed, closet, table, the vital of a bedroom's necessities — which is unimpressive in Kiyo's standards. He hadn't chose to do anything to his room, and it's more than likely that his personal items were transferred to that closet of his.

Amami peered around tentatively. Kiyo's insults had became nothing but a blur in his ears at this point, and judging by the amiable little smirk on Amami's cheeks, he couldn't care less for the fume that's shooting out of Kiyo's ears. Amami's hoisting Shinguji's weight on his shoulder, choosing to not mind the occasional buckle of Shinguji's legs, his hipbone that nudged into his own. They trudge for the bed, the green-haired male tilting them to the side so that the drunk anthropologist could graze his fingertips over the bedsheets. He's not completely releasing him yet, but inpatient little Kiyo, who wanted nothing but to be self-reserved, let go of Amami to try and pull his weight onto the stacked mattress. Promptly, his knees staggered against the wooden floor.

"Woah! Hey, Kiyo—"

"Do not touch me!" Sputtered the man, turning his head to squint his golden orbs up at Amami, frowning morderately. He groans to himself, fingers running up to massage his stomach, the burning image of his once battered knees, now enkindled in his head. He stiffens his limbs, a feeble attempt to halter the shaking his body is doing. He looks weak. He hates it, hates it badly.

Korekiyo attempted to lift a knee, shivering with pain, but he's locked in a position he can't unfold; leg forced into his gut, hands stuck on the ground, removing them would only result in him falling. His grunts of pursuit and pain fill the room. Amami scoffs himself, for once. He shook his head, retracting the painful urge to run his fingers through his hair, whether his own or Kiyo's went unknown.

"Alright, alright, big guy, I've got you." His arm stretched beneath the pits of Kiyo's knees, his other wrapping across his back, hoisting up the man in his arms, who lets out a little squeal. Amami chuckled. He's tall, but not muscular. Kiyo didn't look it, but he's lighter than he looks.

"Okay, there we go." Korekiyo looks up at him, undoubtedly riled up. His hat is missing, lord knows where it's been dropped. Now that it's gone, however, Amami takes the time to look at him, clearly. His dark blue hair is swooped to the side, beneath one of two long strips running over his body. His clothing quite strained on his legs, which are straddled with his an arm inadvertently resting across the bed, the other, his chest.

"What're you lookin' at?" He'd growl, but Amami could only smile and shake his head. His foliated, leafy eyes canters the man's body, rolling down his ankles to where his fingers moved to, peeling at his boots. He felt the surprised jerk from Kiyo's thigh, who hesitantly allowed him to remove the footwear. It should be a soothing action, hypothetically, is what Korekiyo thinks to himself, but that reoccurring feeling, one that's palpable to his distrust, but weak against Amami, rather his assurance, seems to put him right off the mood, whatever mood this was.

Beneath the boots, on another note, are bandaged toes and up. Amami's painted fingertips find the soles of his feet, abrading his thumb on the top of his foot. He feels Kiyo's tiny but consistent flinches, his foot trying to arch off the man's palm. "S-stop that," Korekiyo snapped, failing to kick the man's chest.

"Hurt yourself?" His face is tilted down, but his emerald beams are looking up. There's a sparkle in his pupils, but it's not like the one that the girl had at the table, no, not like that at all. He looked tensed. Rantaro looked, sympathetic. Though, the curve of his lips are still there.

"It doesn't concern you." He'd snap back in a hurry, yanking his ankles away with his knees pressed to his chest, all with a sudden peak of strength, likely at the threat of exposure. He would try to avoid that as casually as he could. Amami lets go with ease, a smirk that only grew but felt off, in a way. Biased, likely. He's bowed at his knees, simpering like a hyena. There's something nudging at his mind, but Korekiyo went too far in with the wine to be able to tell. He wrinkled his brows.

"The door is open, how about you leave."

"That's a little hurtful." Amami picked himself up with a little heave of the chest, curving around the bed for the door. His fingers palmed against it, his cheek pressing against the cool surface, eyes swapping from Kiyo's eyes, to the singular foot that was stripped of his boot. Kiyo's heart is in his throat, maybe a little higher.

Amami doesn't pull the door like Shinguji wants him too, his palm pushes the door shut, clicks and locks— an automatic process. But of course, Kiyo's mind dips in deep into the gutter.

Amami’s lanky body roamed the room, fingernails drawling against the smooth surface of his drawer, eyeing himself and then at Kiyo’s shocked composure, who managed to pull himself up, in the mirror. Out came a little chuckle. “So, you want any medicine, or anything?” His hand drenched in jewelry grabbed at the drawer’s handles, hauling each and every one open for his eyes to scrutinise. There was at least one drawer in every room that had at least a box of bandages, nothing too vital— Monokuma was evil, you see. His hands must’ve been reaching a little too far, because Korekiyo gave a little grunt.

“Get your hands off of my things.”

Amami gives a little whistle at the bottom right drawer, a noise displaying his tantalising stare, his wrist disappears into it, and out he pulls a velvet, straw rope. He abruptly squawked. “My, oh, my, what’s this you got here?”

Shinguji could no longer bare the redness spreading across his nose, though he’s almost positive it’s from the anger, the bewilderment and the wine. He felt no type of way at all for this fiend, none other than Sister, his beloved. But he couldn’t stop or manage the tingle that runs through his weakened veins when he watches Amami run a finger over it.

“My, I never took you for the kinky type. Is that what you do for a living?” His voice is deep, throaty, sounds like his lips is pressed right against the shell of Kiyo’s ears. He despises it, feels both ears burn with anger. Sister, he was thinking to himself, apologising as much as he could even in a state like this, forgive me, please.

“That is Sister’s rope! Get your degrading hands off it!”

“Was she into this, too?” Amami’s interests reached it’s peak. There’s this fascinated, yet overall dangerous gleam in his eyes. He’s towering over Korekiyo, staring into his eyes. He’s not off-put like usual, the distance between them would be a typical six to ten feet. But like this, oh, like this, Korekiyo Shinguji looks like he was asking to be exploited. Of course, he sees viperous warning in Kiyo’s eyes. He bows like a pup. “Joking.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t go hurting my feelings, now,” Amami smiles warmly, brushing a hand over Kiyo’s cheek. It goes unnoticed, or rather ignored.

His gaze is stone-cold. “I plan on it, of course.” His own bandages fingers lift, holding Rantaro’s forearm to stop him from moving any further. Rantaro’s other hand grabs ahold of Kiyo’s wrist, pinning it above his head. Kiyo doesn’t put up more than a struggle.

“..Well, we’ll see if you can act on it by the end of the night, shall we?” Amami muttered, pushing his mouth against Korekiyo’s clothes neck.

He stares up at the ceiling bitterly. Sister, do forgive me. In a weakened state like this, he’ll let it slide but not indefinitely. This is nothing like the love that he and Sister makes. Nothing at all. “Get off me,” Korekiyo muttered, a sour, overgrown growl. It goes unheard on Amami’s behalf. His fingers have Kiyo’s limbs straddled over his own, his wrists bound above his head.

This is nothing, Kiyo tells himself, this it nothing, this is nothing at all. Yet, there’s this feeling.. Amami‘s fingertip runs over the bump on Korekiyo’s mask, undoubtedly his lip. His mind is feeling hazy, at this point, he barely hears the, ‘Wonder what you look like,’ that’ runs out of Amami’s lips. Knowing Korekiyo’s distinct attachment to masks, however, leads him to retreat his finger but replace it on his coat, dragging down the zipper all but with two fingers.

x

His clothes are gone in a swift but slow second, forgotten on the carpeted floor encircling his bed. All but his bandages arms, feet, and clothes mouth. Crimson spreads like a disease over his nose. Thoughts are racing through his mind a mile a minute, he’s frightened, he’s humiliated.. he’s enthralled. “Hey, you’re not half bad,” Amami assured him, beaming wickedly as only Kiyo’s huffs fill the room.

It’s not like Sister, this isn’t like what he and Sister do. This is disgusting, this is the epitome of filth. He and Sister love one another, but he’s here scrawling his nails across Rantaro’s back, nothing but whimpers escaping his lips. The mask do it’s best to conceal it, but no doubt, with Amami’s mouth pressed against his neck like this, every sound doesn’t go unnoticed. His ankle meets Amami’s collarbone. At this, his eyes widen.

Those aged men who too him by surprise, broke him entirely, filling him with their each and every share, marking his thighs with their little blades and imprinting their fingertips upon his neck. His mind flashes millions of images. He’s in pain all of a sudden, a tear slipping from his eyelash. Their grips on his waist, the metal weapons pounding down hard on his knees whilst one held him still, the other behind him rocking himself in. The way their coarse hands pulled at his roots, making him grit his teeth, but only accepts the blunt tip poking at his entrance, accepts it with as much struggle as he could let up, just until one of the men smacked him hard. His mouth had been abused, lips bruised days upon days after the incident, to this day he continued to chew on it. The way they rummaged over him, completely and utterly fucked him up. The purple kimono Sister had made for him, now gone, ripped to shreds and barely supporting his woman-like figure. He hates it. _He hated it. He hated it. _

Barely blinking into reality, Amami’s staring down at him affectionately, lost in his actions but he knows why Kiyo’s going, but doesn’t know where. Kiyo’s eyes blink for the first time. He’s lost himself in a little image, nothing too important, hm. If Sister’s not it in, it’s considered low and insignificant, highly beneath him. His nails dig into Amami’s skin. He takes what is given. The images and feeling of rough hands on his skin doesn’t fade, it can’t, it won’t; and he _hates it. _

This feeling Amami Rantaro is providing for him, inflicting vibrants upon vibrants of pleasure. He won’t stop, but Kiyo doesn’t want him too. He throws his head back, finger drawing back the mask, alas! “I-I’m sorry, S-Sister!” He gasps, loud and apprehensible. The mask hugs his throat just beneath his chin, to whether Amami glances. His lips are slathered perfectly in red lipstick.

Rantaro doesn’t know how to feel at this point, choosing to push his head against poor little Kiyo’s neck, biting whatever exposed skin there is to see. His eyelids are weak, dim from wine, weak from Rantaro, the tears, the pain. He hates it. He hates how he enjoys the pain more, and yet there’s so much of it. His milk-white legs wrap around Amami’s back, hands presumably shredding open his back. Either party cared to stop.

It’s not like Sister, it’s not like Sister at all. She’s not inside him like Amami, not like those men had intruded him. Amami wasn’t slapping, punching or strangling like Sister or those men had. This is different, this was strange and filthy, and he hated it. The fact that Amami somehow knew how much Kiyo loved straw rope had had to be a factor in this disgusting intrusion. He saw how hard the anthropologist has become as he knotted the loops around his suspecting wrists. Why he didn’t do more, was a question Kiyo wanted to think about, but didn’t dare try because of Sister. God, oh, God, Sister was watching, and he’s sure of it.

He’s afraid, absolutely petrified.

Fucked senseless but neither is ceasing a halt, he’s not smiling like he would be when making love with Sister, he isn’t scowling like he was when those men took what they want from him, with Amami, he’s sobbing, lipstick-slathered lips grinding against Amami’s. “I’m sorry, Sister, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry,” He’d hiccup, would continue to repeat and repeat against Rantaro’s lips.

It’s not an absolute lie, but not the wholesome truth.

A moment after, he’s hot, panting like a dog, lips running down Amami’s lips, staining his chin with lipstick, Sister’s lipstick. “What have you done, my dear Korekiyo?” She whispers, parting just barely from Rantaro, white ribbons keeping them together.

“I’m sorry,” Korekiyo then sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”


End file.
